Date with a Sheesha (14 page)

Ethan and I looked at each other silently for a moment. Under different circumstances, I would have been using the time to admire his gentle, bear-brown eyes, his soft, poker-straight hair, still damp from our shower, or the way his skin glowed tan in the firelight. Instead, I was assessing his face for clues to his reaction to my news.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” I began. Not because I’d 93

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found a clue, but because someone had to say something. “It’s been a whirlwind ever since I found out about this case. And I did try to call, yesterday, but you were busy. And then I was busy.

And then I didn’t get a chance to see you last night.” Oooo yeah, I was full of handy excuses.

His voice was soft when he finally spoke. “Is it safe for you to be there?”

I nodded. “Yes. Of course.” I was a detective. He knew that.

Was it the safest profession in the world? No. Could I get into danger? Yes. Did I think being in Dubai was unreasonably crossing the line of personal safety? No. Not after the research I’d done.

And really, things could be—and had been—just as unsafe for me right here in Saskatoon. I stood by my answer.

“You’ve thought through the risks?”

“Yes.”

He nodded, his eyes looking distant, as if he was trying to think through several different things at once.

“Does your mother know?”

“She will before I go.”

“You know I’d rather you didn’t go?”

I kissed him. “Yes.”

“You know I will worry about you?”

I kissed him again. “I’m counting on it.”

“Russell, something has to change.”

I wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that, but little bells started pealing in the back of my head. I did what I often do at times like that. I tried to lighten things up. “I know. I know. But it’s not like every case takes me to a country where they persecute cute, half-Ukrainian, half-Irish, gay, Canadian, prairie private detectives.”

He ignored my weak attempt at humour. “It’s not just the whole Middle East thing, Russell.”

I bobbed my head. I got it. “It’s the not telling you right away part. That’s what bothering you, right?” I wasn’t so dim.

He reached out and took my left hand in his. His voice was eerily calm. “I was hoping that by now, you’d think something like this is a big enough decision that instead of worrying about 94

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when to tell me what you’ve already decided to do, you’d want to discuss it with me before you make a decision in the first place.

Russell, you know I’m not one for sermons.” It was true. This was probably the most words I’d heard him put together in a while.

“But you’re not alone in this anymore. I know you’re used to the freedom of jumping up and taking off for France, or Africa, or wherever, at the whim of a client. But, well, things have changed.

“I hate that I’m saying this. I hate that it sounds like I’ve just attached a ball and chain to your ankle. But sitting here, hearing for the first time that you’re hopping a plane for Dubai day after tomorrow, well, it’s just seems kinda crazy to me. Not that I’m saying you shouldn’t do it. It’s your career. I know that. And I know you love this kind of adventure. You’ve been doing it a long time. But I wish…I wish I’d been in on the whole thing a little bit sooner. It’s hard to be supportive about something that’s sprung on you out of the blue, y’know what I’m saying?”

My head moved up and down. He was right. I was wrong. I just didn’t like saying it out loud.

“I don’t blame this on you, hon…”

Yay.

“…It’s because of this crazy circumstance we have going on.”

Gulp. “Crazy circumstance? Which crazy circumstance are you specifically referring to?”

“We live separate lives, Russell. Sure, sometimes you pack a bag and come live with me for a few days. Sometimes I come here.

But really, for the most part it feels like all we’re doing is having a series of one-night stands with the same person over and over again.”

My temper flashed. “You call this a one-night stand?”

“Am I sleeping here tomorrow night? Are you sleeping at my house?”

“W-well I don’t know for sure yet, I supp—”

“You see. One-night stand. Neither of us knows if we’re going to see each other tomorrow night.”

“Ethan, that’s not fair. That’s not the way it always is.”

“Isn’t it? Think about it. If you and I slept in the same house, in the same bed, every night, do you think I’d be hearing about 95

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this bloody crazy trip to the Middle East a whole day and a half after you’ve already made up your mind to go?”

He was probably right about that. If I’d been with Ethan last night, there’s no way I wouldn’t have told him then.

Well, I’m pretty sure about that.

“I love you, Russell. But something has to change.” His hand tightened around mine. “Something has to change.”

I smelled the unpleasant odour of something burning. It might not have been the salmon.

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Chapter 7

The wedding ring was a little tight on my finger. I stared at it, surprised to see it there. Surprised at how right it looked. I’m not a jewellery kinda guy. There was an ill-advised but mercifully brief puka shell choker period when I was a teen. Then the ankle rope phase and the thumb ring thing, but other than that I have generally remained unadorned. When Ethan Ash slipped the white gold band onto my ring finger, I was certain it was going to look weird and scream out to all who saw it: FAKE!

Because that’s what it was. A fake. Not a wedding ring at all, only a pretender.

That morning, Ethan had dropped me off at the Saskatoon airport. Both were now miles below me, slowly disappearing from view beneath a feathery layer of clouds as my Air Canada jet headed away from the Prairies. It had been an awkward moment when he’d presented me with the thing, just before I’d joined the security line. My first thought was: He really meant it when he said, “Something has to change.” My second thought was: What 97

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a crappy time and place to propose. My third thought was: Oh my god, am I expected to answer right now? Not this…again!

“Keep this on while you’re there,” he’d advised me, his brown, puppy dog eyes filled with worry. “Tell them you’re married. It’ll cause less suspicion than a handsome man still single in his late thirties.”

“I could be divorced,” I’d told him, trying for light-hearted-ness once I’d recovered from my shock at seeing the ring in his hand. “I could be a widower. Besides, what’s wrong with being single and in your thirties?”

“Here? Nothing,” he’d said, not playing along with the humour in the situation. “There? Who knows? I just don’t want anyone thinking you might be gay.”

I don’t know where Ethan was getting his information from.

But I couldn’t help smiling at his sweet—if misguided (not to mention not very gay-pride-worthy)—intent. “Ethan, I’m going to be fine. Please don’t worry.”

He’d finally managed an uncomfortable chuckle. “Okay, okay.

I know I may be overreacting…but will you just wear the damn thing? Please?”

I’d slipped the band where it was meant to go and held up my hand. “Of course I will. But you realize this does not mean I’m going to take out the garbage every Monday without complain-ing. And I still want regular sex.”

He laughed at that. “Deal.”

I saw in his eyes that he wanted to say so much more. Soppy stuff. Stuff that would make it seem like I was going off to the front lines to fight the Nazis or something. Instead, he grabbed me and gave me one last hug.

“I love you, Russell.”

I pulled back and looked him in the eye. For the first time, I couldn’t quite read what I saw there. “Are you okay?”

“Sure, sure.”

“I love you too.”

“Good to hear.”

“Tell Simon I think she’s getting soft for not waking up early to see me off.”

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“Will do.”

“I’ll email you all the time. And I’ll be back before you even begin to miss me.”

“Doubtful. I’ve already started.”

I’d felt a bit of a quiver. If the scene had been from a movie of the week, I’d have been doomed. Nobody lives after such a sweet farewell.

But I’d gotten on the plane anyway.

The trip to Calgary had taken less than an hour. As I deplaned, I scoured my scurrying fellow passengers for Hema Gupta. She was nowhere to be seen. This was worrisome. I’d done my best to study up on antique carpets over the past couple of days, but Colin Cardinale was right. There was just too much detail to ever feel truly knowledgeable, unless you’d done nothing but lived and breathed old carpets your entire life. Without Hema, I would definitely be up Dubai Creek without a paddle.

At noon, I boarded my flight to Montreal, Hema still unaccounted for. But, for the moment, I was a little less concerned about her and decidedly more in love with my client, Pranav Gupta. You see, he’d sprung for business class tickets. I spent the next three and a half hours watching a movie and being wined and dined in wide-seated comfort.

Before after-lunch drinks were served, I did a pass through the business class cabin. There was no way I’d be at the front of the plane and Hema wouldn’t be. But she wasn’t there. Had she bailed? Had something gone wrong? Had they changed plans without telling me? Hema hadn’t struck me as a particularly sophisticated or worldly person. Maybe she’d missed the flight?

She hadn’t appeared resistant to the idea of coming to Dubai with me, but nor had she been particularly excited. Maybe she simply decided not to come. As I made my way back to my seat and snifter of Grand Marnier, I decided I would call Pranav as soon as we landed, to see if he knew what was going on.

We arrived in Montreal a little late, at 5:48 p.m. local time.

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got. My next leg—to Paris—didn’t leave until nine. Fortunately, my business class ticket gave me access to the Maple Leaf Club lounge. That meant no waiting with the masses in uncomfortable seats for the next three hours. Instead, a flash of my ticket opened the big, shiny, silver door into air traveller paradise The place was an oasis in the middle of the busy Pierre Elliott Trudeau International Airport. I found a comfortable seat, pulled off my coat, and set out before me my reference books on antique carpets. As my computer booted up, I went to the complimentary self-serve bar area and helped myself to a glass of red and some carrots. (I knew I’d be too weak to resist the meal on the upcoming flight—my second dinner of the evening—and I saw no need to stress my wonderpants further than was necessary.) Back in front of my laptop, I was searching my electronic files for Pranav’s phone number when I saw her. Hema Gupta was across the room, looking very much like me: laptop, books spread about, glass of wine. She seemed completely unaware of my presence, oblivious to her surroundings, head down, wildly texting a message into a tiny hand-held device. I noticed a much older woman, wearing a serious business suit, sitting one seat removed from Hema. She too was positioned in front of a laptop, cup of coffee in hand, talking softly into a cellphone. The man next to her, much the same. And the fellow next to him.

My eyes roamed the room. Everyone was doing pretty much the same thing. I’d never before thought about what an unique environment an airport lounge is: removed from the hubbub of the airport, the lighting a little less harsh, the ambiance for the most part calm, quiet, and reserved. It’s otherworldly in a way, caught between the outside terminal and 35,000 feet in the air.

Airline lounges are always situated somewhere after you pass through security, so you can’t readily leave the airport. And there’s no reason to leave the lounge itself until it’s time to board your plane. You’re caught, in suspension, in this ethereal place.

So what do people do in this special world, at a time when they are isolated from their real lives but not yet doing what they’re here to do, which is to fly somewhere else? Some certainly use the time to work, their laptops and files of papers, and 100

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sometimes even their colleagues or employees gathered round them at the ready. But many, I observed, use the time to reach out.

Via cellphone, BlackBerry, PDA, laptop, they reach out. They speak to spouses, children, parents, even old friends they haven’t talked to in while. They call people they’ve just left behind for one last goodbye. They call people they are about to see at the other end of their flight to reassure them—and themselves—that they’ll soon be immersed in the plans they’ve made or lives they share.

There was a sense in the room that, although all was well, these were people about to undertake a shared experience, not entirely risk-free. If you asked them—the majority likely frequent flyers if they were Maple Leaf Lounge regulars—most of them would say they enjoy flying, and believe it to be safe. And yet, in the quiet, uninterrupted moments of this space, segregated from the real world, a free glass or two of liquor in hand, a moment with no responsibility other than to wait, what they need most to do is reach out and confirm they are alive.